A Moment of Comfort
by Narukashi666
Summary: For screaming-towards-apotheosis on tumblr. Sammy is having a bad day, so Crowley gives him some comfort.


"My, my. What have we here?"

Sam starts and sits up quickly, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. "Nothing," he mutters, keeping his eyes down. Today is a bad day. It's hard to focus, hard to think, hard to keep it together with all the things buzzing through his head; but he must not show weakness, not around this bastard.

Crowley leans on the table next to him and gives a sly half-grin. "Nothing, eh? What are these then?" He has the audacity to reach out and touch Sam's cheek, flicking off a drop of liquid that may or may not have escaped his 'lashes. He jerks back, almost falling out of his chair, and knocks Crowley's arm away.

"None of your business!" he snarls, and chokes a bit because damn it the urge to cry is so strong, but not in front of this asshole. No, stay strong, stay strong, just for a little while longer. "Leave me alone, alright?"

The former King pouts, but sighs and pushes off of the table. "Well… if you ever… feel like talking," he begins casually, circling around behind Sam, and leaning down a bit beside his ear to murmur, "I'm right here." He grins and claps Sam's shoulder, ignoring his warning glower, and strolls out of the room. Sam narrows his eyes at his retreating back, but as soon as the demon is out of sight he slumps in his seat again and closes his eyes tight and tries to sort out the thoughts and feelings bouncing urgently throughout his system. Most of it is guilt, guilt about so much, guilt about letting everyone down, guilt about letting so many people die, guilt at failing to keep it together; and anger, and fear, aimed at everything and everyone, and it's so intense today, amplified, and he doesn't know why. It's always there, but here and now, it's enough that tears are leaking out. He doesn't dare sob outright. Why does it have to happen _now_?

A tiny whimper escapes him.

He bites his lip, hard, squeezes his eyes shut, grips his pen so tight it almost snaps, and shoves it down. All the way down, to the dark pit in his stomach, the place where he hides everything. Hold it there. Maybe tonight he'll cry into his pillow, like he does every few weeks. But he will do it silently, and no one will know.

The soft clunk of a mug set at his elbow. His eyes snap open, and Crowley smiles innocently. "Thought you'd like a drink," he explains cheerfully, nudging the offering closer. Sam glares at him warily, then picks it up and eyes the contents suspiciously. It smells like hot chocolate, with a hint of peppermint. Well… he might as well try it. So he takes a sip.

Not bad, actually. The peppermint is probably from the little bottle of extract he keeps in the spice cupboard. And it's made with milk, not water; just the way he likes it. Odd. But it is good, so he takes a bigger gulp.

The pit in his stomach explodes open again, and he chokes and slams the mug down so hard it splashes, burning his hand and staining his notes, but he clamps both hands over his mouth and shuts his eyes tight and holds his breath, fighting it, fighting it hard, trying to keep it in—

Arms holding him. "There, there, darling, it's alright. Papa's here. Just let it out."

He freezes for just a moment. And then of course he's stupid and pathetic and weak enough that everything just pours out, the tears, the ugly sobbing, and he doesn't mean to but he's clinging to the person holding him tight and burying his face in their shoulder and crying, crying, too hard to stop. He doesn't care that this person is supposed to still be an enemy, at least a little bit; he doesn't care that this is an awkward scene and if Dean or Cas saw they'd probably flip. It's just, he just, it hurts so bad, everything hurts, and letting himself cry is like popping an infected pimple, all the gross painful poisonous things exploding out—and then it slows, and he can breathe; tears are still falling, and the pain is still there, but he can see a bit now, and even if his breaths shudders at least they're full. The turmoil is settling. His eyes and throat ache. Who's stroking his hair? It doesn't matter. It feels nice, being held like this.

"It's alright, love," Crowley murmurs. "You're alright now."

"Don't call me that," he mumbles, tiredly; it's so quiet he can barely hear himself. But this is… good. Even if he is still holding tight and his face is buried in his enemy's shoulder. Hugs and fingers through his hair, safe, comforting. Comfort is good. "…Thank you."

He can hear Crowley's grin. "Any time. Would you like some more hot chocolate, since you spilled most of it?"

"Yeah."


End file.
